


Stand By Me

by merelypassingtime



Series: Meretricious Melodies [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Flagrant over use of song lyrics, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, sorry for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: After Sherlock's fall John commits suicide. There is further fallout.





	Stand By Me

_When the night has come_  
_And the land is dark_  
_And the moon is the only light we'll see_  
_No I won't be afraid_  
_Oh, I won't be afraid_  
_Just as long as you stand, stand by me_

Even now months later John could still recall the first moment he saw Sherlock with enough clarity and detail that it might have impressed even the man himself. Now, with the empty days of his pointless life stretching before him, he treasured his ability to close his eyes and see Sherlock again as he had been in the lab that day, cool and well put together, lovely and unearthly. It was vastly better than the more frequent times he closed his eyes and saw Sherlock on the roof again, a black silhouette against a pale blue sky, arm reaching out to John beseechingly.

He pushed the image away with the ease of long practice, and looked down at the grave black headstone that was the only sight of Sherlock he had left. The simple granite did nothing to reflect the extraordinary life that lay beneath it and John seethed with hatred for it, for the world, and for Sherlock for leaving him.

He reached under the coat he worn in spite of the warm day and pulled the Browning out of the waistband at the small of his back. It was surprisingly warm and light in his hand. One last time he closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the hated headstone. Instead he remembered Sherlock the way he had been that first day as he put the gun to his temple. 

He didn't hear the shouts from behind him or the running feet, rather in his mind he heard Sherlock ask him, “Afghanistan or Iraqi?” as he squeezed the trigger.

He never heard the gunshot.

_So darling, darling_  
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_  
_Oh stand, stand by me_  
_Stand by me_

The hesitant rap on the frame of his open door immediately pulled Mycroft's attention from the screen of the computer before him. It was very unlike his assistant to be unsure about anything. One look at her face told him that it would be news he wouldn't like. “Oh, dear. Did that business in Xinjiang devolve further?”

“No, sir.” she answered promptly, then hesitated again.

Mycroft felt his stomach clench with the beginnings of terror, “Sherlock isn't-” 

The woman cut him off quickly, “No, your brother is fine as of our last report. He is still in Turkey making contacts and quite safe.” Again there was a pause before she continued. “But I am afraid that the team watching Dr Watson has just informed me... Well, I am sorry to have to tell you sir that Dr Watson has committed suicide.”

The relief that had flowed through his at hearing Sherlock was fine fled in an instant, leaving cold shock in its wake. “Oh, god. How?”

“I am afraid that he shot himself at your brother's graveside, sir.”

“And where was his team when this was happening?” he demanded.

“They did try to reach him in order to stop it but apparently it happened quite fast.”

“Oh god,” he breathed again. “This is a disaster.” He dismissed his assistant with a vague hand wave, ignoring her muttered apologies as she left. He glared down at the suddenly unimportant paperwork scattered across his desk. He was surprised to feel more than a tinge of his own sorrow for the good doctor, but it was almost completely eclipsed by the dawning horror of knowing that he was going to have to find a way to break the news to Sherlock. 

_If the sky that we look upon_  
_Should tumble and fall_  
_Or the mountain should crumble to the sea_  
_I won't cry, I won't cry_  
_No, I won't shed a tear_  
_Just as long as you stand, stand by me_

Sherlock knew someone was in his room, the markers he had left on the door had been clearly disturbed, and he opened the unlocked door cautiously. When he saw his brother sitting in the room's single chair he huffed in annoyance and turned to slam the door shut behind himself.

“Mycroft. Here to check up on me? Making sure that your little brother is keeping his noise clean and doing his assigned task well enough?” he asked, trying to hide how good it was to see a familiar face by injecting his question with all the venom he could.

He did not receive the cutting answer he expected, opening the verbal volleys he always traded with his brother. “Sherlock...” Mycroft's voice was gentle, and Sherlock whirled around to face his fully for the first time. “I am afraid I come as the bearer of bad news.”

“John.” It was not a question.

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed, his voice level even as his fingers fidgeted on the handle of his umbrella.

“No, that is not possible.” 

“I am sorry but it is true. Dr Watson is dead.”

“No, you are lying. He can't be dead. He is safe. All this was to make him safe!” Sherlock voice increased in volume as the initial shock became anger. “He was suppose to be safe. You promised me that you could protect him!”

“And I did. Unfortunately while I was able to successfully keep Moran and his ilk away I proved to be less able to protect the doctor from himself.”

“What is that suppose to mean? You can't be implying that John-” Sherlock cut off, unable to even say the words.

Mycroft was forced to say them for him, “Yes, he took his own life Sherlock. I am so sorry.”

“No! John would never do that!” Sherlock screamed at him. “He was too strong for that, too stubborn. He would never.”

“But he did, Sherlock. I never really considered that he might either until yesterday but it is true.”

Sherlock stared blankly at him for several second before a hoarse whisper escaped his throat, “No.”It was no longer a denial, but rather a plea. Sherlock fell to his knees, hands buried in his now close cropped hair as the word tore from from him again and turned into a litany. “No, no no no nononono...”

Mycroft was beside him on the floor instantly, gathering his younger brother into their first hug in almost three decades, as Sherlock keened his grief.

_And darling, darling_  
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_  
_Oh stand now, stand by me_  
_Stand by me_

The grave was next to his. Sherlock had insisted on that through Mycroft and John's sister hadn't been able to resist the full power of the British government. Not that she tried very hard Sherlock thought bitterly as he looked at the black headstone that almost matched his own. The difference was that while his bore only his name John's also had the simple epitaph “Doctor, Solder, Friend” and the dates of his birth and his death. Also, this grave was not empty.

Sherlock stared down at it and felt nothing. Six months had passed from that day he had cried out the first stages of grief in Mycroft's care and since then he hadn't felt anything but a ringing hollowness in his chest.

It hadn't stopped him from functioning, if anything the coldness had made hunting down the rest of Moriarty's web easier. He had shot the last remaining member not quite two hours ago in a flat in Westminster and the emptiness in him hadn't even allowed to feel satisfaction at a job well done or relief for the ensured safety of his remaining friends. It had just been another check on his list, allowing him to come to this place to cross off the final item on that list.

He had done his best to lose the watchers he knew that Mycroft had assigned to him as soon as he set foot in London again but he knew that John's grave would be under surveillance. No doubt Mycroft was en-route right now bearing more meaningless words and platitudes for him. It didn't matter, he would have enough time to say his goodbyes.

He knelt in front of the stone, reaching out one finger to trace over the W, wiping away the thin layer of dust accumulated there. When he spoke his voice sounded rusty from disuse.

“John, I-” but the words choked off as he could not think of what to say to this man who had done so much for him and whom he had in return broken and driven to death.

Maybe it didn't matter if he couldn't find the right words Sherlock thought. For all his blog keeping John had always been a man of action. Sherlock hoped he would understand.

With the hand not resting on John's name he took the gun he had so recently used to end Moriarty’s empire from its concealed holster and rested it under his chin. He carefully adjusted the angle to insure maximum damage and the least survivability before he closed his eyes and took one last deep breath. He thought he detected the smell of tea and wool and the indefinable scent of John.

He never heard the gunshot.

_So darling, darling_  
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_  
_Oh stand now, stand by me, stand by me_  
_Whenever you're in trouble won't you stand by me_  
_Oh stand by me, won't you stand now, oh, stand_  
_Stand by me_


End file.
